


An Ill-Gotten Favor

by Asha_Everly



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Blow Jobs, Dark, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Enemies, Explicit Language, F/M, Heavy Plot, Interrogation, Mentions of Past Torture, Military, Planets, Prisoner of War, Science Fiction, Space Opera, Stockholm Syndrome, Total Power Exchange, Trading your body and pride for things you need, Verbal Discussion of M/F/F, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asha_Everly/pseuds/Asha_Everly
Summary: She needs a favor. He’s open to offers.Any interrogator worth his salt salivates at such cracks in enemy armor.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	An Ill-Gotten Favor

**Author's Note:**

> **AN:** Teaser / Oneshot alert! This is a scene from one of my space opera / scifi works that I've been crafting. Wanted to play around with this scene in particular, wrote it in one sitting, so beware, could be utter self-indulgent trash. Dubious consent, mentions of past torture, etc. this occurs somewhere in the middle of the plot line, so I sort of add some things to ease you in to the world. This is about a female soldier who had previously been interrogated for months while a prisoner of war before being released into the POW camp for general containment during intergalactic war.
> 
> Original fiction, characters and plot all belong to me. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The morning sirens went off, the way they did every morning. Loud, piercing wails. _Wake up and march to your graves_ , they seemed to say.

A collection of groans arose from the amassed collection of bunks, the same as every morning; women waking up to the invasive sound and to the ache in their bones that simply didn’t have the courtesy to fade. 

Moira patted her body down tiredly, feeling for her work gloves out of habit, the ones assigned to all prisoners in the mining camp. Upon finding nothing, her eyes popped open, a certain amount of animal terror slicing through her nerves.

She sat up in the bunk so fast that she hit her head on the one above, the sting barely registering through the way her heart nearly tore out of her chest, like the strange creature from that old Earth horror movie she’d once seen.

Her bunkmate was pulling on her dusty workboots, giving Moira a strange glance. “What’s wrong?”

One by one, women pulled on their old flight uniform undershirts, some infantry, leaving their coats hanging from their bunks. In the next barracks over, their male counterparts were likely going through the same routine. The planet they were on was simply too warm, the mines themselves unbearable.

It was like dropping into a stifling oven, going underground, surrounded by dust, dirt, and ore.

It was an ironic thing. Prisoners of war, imprisoned on the very planet they had been captured on, mining the ore they had gone to war over in the first place. The opposing army came from a planet that routinely went to war with others like it was their creed, like they were being paid to do it, so they certainly knew how to make the best of any situation.

The situation being; why not use captured Alliance troops to mine the very ore being fought for?

“My mining gloves are missing,” Moira said it once, then said it again with a certain outrage in her voice.

Her bunkmate, Urulla, froze, her dark eyes glancing around the barracks, eyes falling on the other women hastily racing out the doors to prepare for another day of back-breaking work. “One of these sorry bitches robbed you blind, Moira.”

The gloves were not merely gloves. The gloves were designed to protect against constant contact with the very material they pulled from the mine. A special ore, used to fuel intergalactic armadas, space stations, essentially anything of importance.

The material was also extremely abrasive, damaging when touched routinely to flesh for any period of time. The gloves were her only protection and this war wasn’t likely to end any time soon. Every touch against the ore, without protection, was a searing, burning pain.

The gloves were of a special design, a special material. They were not handed out like candy to prisoners. You protected what you had or you suffered.

Moira eyeballed all of the weary women around her, wondering who the damn snatcher was, because they would have had to crawl up on her in the middle of the night to pry those gloves from inside her shirt. Military bearing be damned; being a prisoner of war nearly beat the morality out of everyone it seemed, reducing them to animals trying to survive the brutality of their merciless situation.

The Alliance would never treat prisoners this way. Never. It was abhorrent.

 _Cadus I_ , however, was a humongous military planet that enjoyed brutality almost as much as they enjoyed going to war over resources located on foreign planets. _Harridea_ , the planet they were on, was an underdeveloped mining planet and _Cadus I_ had wanted to monopolize the crucial resources. The Alliance, made up of much smaller planets, had known they couldn’t afford to let the infamous warmonger take control of _Harridea_ , not without a fight.

So, here they were. POWs. Men and women alike working in the mines. Doomed to work until they died or the war happened to end.

Which, could still mean death if _Cadus I_ was victorious.

“You know they never give replacement tools out,” Moira replied wearily, knowing what she would have to do. She glanced at her pale hands, callused from work.

She’d seen the hands of people who had their gloves rip and tear open after being in the mine for years. Blistered. Scarred. Red. So damaged to the point that they would never again have full functionality of their fingers.

The nerves eventually became dead after so much exposure to the ore.

She couldn’t allow that to happen to her. The war had to end sometime, didn’t it? She hadn’t survived the meat grinder underground, disguised her real rank with a false ID from a dead Flight Sergeant, only to lose her fucking hands.

Urulla’s dark features pulled into a scowl. “What’s your grand plan then? Conjure some into being?”

Oh, Moira had a plan. A terrible, last ditch effort, do or die plan. One that set her teeth on edge. Her pride had been left in tatters months ago. The guards here couldn’t care less about one POW at risk for losing her hands.

But. The one who held her underwater in a tub of ice until she nearly drowned on at least four different occasions could perhaps be bought with the only currency that was ever dealt in a prisoner of war camp; military intelligence.

The old brand marks on her hips ached, phantom pains. A reminder of what her flesh smelled like when it burned.

“I’ll go back to the Slaughterhouse. The Butcher may be willing to make a trade. He-”

“Oh, girl. Is that really better?” Urulla looked ill. “You’re mad. You’ve lost it. You go in, you might not come back.”

“He’ll want to see me. He left the door open, if I had more information. Most of what I know is outdated now. Garbage that can’t…harm anyone.”

Clasping her arm in a military style embrace, Urulla told Moira to be careful. “Loose lips sink ships, you know.”

“I know.”

Instead of going to the mines to prepare for work, Moira approached the ominous, bleak building on the opposite side of the compound, knowing that underground the workshop from hell was likely in full swing already. The guards at the door, ominous in their infantry style gear from the front lines, pointed their ultra-sonic weapons at her, the hum of activation threatening. “What are you doing, bitch? It’s time for line up at the mines. _Get_!”

Raising her hands carefully, Moira lowered her head and cautiously said, “The Lieutenant said I should report to him if I had more information to impart.”

She couldn’t see their faces behind their dark helmets, but she had a feeling they were frowning. One lowered his weapon and said stiffly, “I’ll take you. If you’re lying just to get out of work, you’re going straight to the freezer.”

 _Ugh_. The freezer. A small tiny box that a body could be crammed into, so cold that people came out half-dead and half-frozen.

Without another word, he opened the door and gestured for her to go first. For a moment, Moira couldn’t move, felt her bones lock up, her muscles tightening with a fight or flight response. The door opened to darkness, where they would take a left to take stairs downward. Down to the Slaughterhouse.

She could almost smell burning flesh, vomit, and sweat. Her legs locked and her mouth went dry as a bone.

The guard pushed her forward with his gun, hitting her hard between her shoulder blades. “March, bitch. You know where you’re going, hop to.”

Down they went, the walls made of dark stone, the floor a damaged cement. Screams filtered upward, bouncing, echoing. A chorus of pain. Moira tried to hold in her fear, curling in on herself. She was brave, had been brave, once. She had to remind herself that she wasn’t here to go under the whip, be drowned in an ice tub, or hang from her thumbs. Not today.

The guard behind her chuckled, the sound almost robotic through the helmet. “Scared?”

She didn’t entertain his words with an answer. Only someone not in their right mind wouldn’t be scared. The men that were stationed down here were shipped in from _Cadus I_ for the very purpose of performing military interrogations. Professionals.

They reached the bottom floor, a smooth, liquid looking epoxy. Easier to clean. Bodily fluids spilled here often. The area was a wide-open space, complete with doors to cells and rooms, hallways branching outwards, going further into the depths. At the far end of this open space, a man hung from his wrists, practically sagging, knees nearly touching the floor. His face was a bloody pulp that Moira couldn’t even decipher, but his torn uniform said he was a Captain in the Alliance. Infantry shock troop, by the look of it.

Three men stood around his hanging body, smoking their strange, old world sticks of death. The air was thick with the scent of it. One of them was shrugging brass knuckles off his fingers, another poked the unconscious man with a baton. The third stood imperiously, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest. His back was to her.

Moira recognized _him_ , the cut of his shoulders and trim waist, accented by his military belt. His officer uniform was striking, much sleeker than the bulky guard outfits. Her breath caught in her lungs, frozen. She could almost feel ice cold water filling them, the memory so vivid.

The guard beside her saluted sharply and said loudly in the Cadian tongue, “Lieutenant. Sir. One of the bitches from upstairs says she has information for you. I know you don’t like being interrupted, so should I send her to the freez-”

The Lieutenant looked over his shoulder at them, strong jawline and proud nose outlined in his profile. His gaze glanced over Moira and she felt like her soul evacuated for a moment. He gave no indication that he cared about her arrival, nothing at all.

As if he hadn’t spent months trying to pry information out of her. They had spent a lot of quality time together, they had. Most of it quite awful, despite how prepared Moira had been for torture.

Dryly, he said, “Situate her in room eight. Just been cleaned.”

Her old room. How sentimental of him.

A dull thud echoed behind Moira as she was led away to the room. It was the sound of flesh being hit, accompanied by a slight groan of pain. She flinched, nearly stumbling as her guard practically dragged her to her old cell. Unceremoniously, the guard threw her down in the single chair in the bare room, locking her hands behind her back. “Wait here,” he commanded.

As if she was going to go anywhere.

There she sat, chained to the seat, listening to the man outside the door being beaten into consciousness. She waited, minutes going by. Perhaps an hour. It was colder down here, the way the Cadian’s preferred. _Cadus I_ was rather chilly, all year long. Moira knew the invading force didn’t enjoy the dry heat of this planet.

Finally, the door to her old room banged open. Moira felt herself shudder at the suddenness of it, rocking back in her seat before steeling herself in military bearing. In the Lieutenant stepped, boots clicking on the floor. One of the men from earlier poked his head in, asking, “Do you need help with this one?”

“No,” the Lieutenant said with a bland expression, intense gunmetal eyes drilling into Moira’s skull. “This is an old _friend_. I know her tricks. You may go.” The other man disappeared, leaving them alone.

The door shut with finality and the Lieutenant leaned against the wall, looking at her from under the brim of his military cap. The silence was thick, stifling. Neither said a word. Moira would wait on him. She knew the tactic. He was letting her stew, waiting to see if she would talk first.

She didn’t miss being in this horrid room. She didn’t miss how he held her life in his hands.

Moments passed as he stared at her intently, in a fashion meant to unnerve her. It wasn’t hard to be unnerved, not when you knew what he was capable of. He’d held her life on a thread more times than she could count.

Finally, he grew tired of waiting for her to speak, likely already thinking of whoever was next on his schedule. “You were never much of a talker,” he breathed out in accented Artemian, Moira’s mother tongue. “I doubt you’re one now. Why have you come, Sergeant? Or, do you just miss my voice _that much_?”

It was always jarring to hear Sergeant rather than Major, but Moira did her best to not bat an eye. It was a good thing, after all, that he hadn’t a clue that she’d successfully pulled the wool over his eyes on that minor detail. That her military ID wasn’t her own. One that she had nicked off a dead body just before capture for her own safety. She had heard what Cadian’s did with captured officers.

He would have never let her leave this cell if he had known her real rank and mission.

“You need information. I need…a favor. I was hoping we could make a trade.”

“A trade? Do you know me to be the sort of man who deals in trivial trades?” Derision dripped from his tone. “The only trades I engage in are the type that involve scum giving me information in order to avoid pain. That’s all. That’s the whole story, Flight Sergeant. Did you get lost along the way?”

Moira was good at hiding her emotions. She only blinked her worry away at the slight hint that he wouldn’t play ball. “No one says no if the info is good,” she replied carefully, knowing her info was not good.

And there was a chance he would know it, too.

The Lieutenant didn’t shift, a coiled snake waiting to strike. His gunmetal grey eyes were cold, like his home planet. An unusual color, not quite black, but not quite grey. Something in between, with hints of green and storm closer to his pupils. The color changed, depending on his mood and the lighting, it seemed. “What is it you need so terribly that you would come here? I’m touched that you think of me when you need a favor. A mistake on your part, I think, but _very_ touching.”

Her lips thinned. He was good at making her feel worthless. “My mining gloves were stolen last night. I need a favor to get replacements, guards never give replacements. I need the gloves, otherwise-”

“Otherwise, your hands are done for,” he finished for her, grinning without amusement, the small white scar bisecting the corner of his mouth pulling. He had a crooked smile, like it was torn between becoming a sneer at all times. “Obviously, you are aware I can be reasonable when the mood strikes. It all depends; what do you have for me?”

She told him, offering up flight plans, last known troop positions, special missions she’d heard of, but knew got scrapped. He listened patiently, to his credit, he always did. He lit another cigarette, the flame reflecting off his eyes. He knew she hated the things.

When she finished, the Lieutenant sighed with disappointment. “I’m afraid none of that is useful. I know your games. It’s old. Very old. I doubt any of it is good anymore. I’m sure it was good months ago when you first came here. Which is why you didn’t talk _then,_ when I needed you to. Now, it’s trash.” He narrowed his eyes at her, blowing smoke towards her face, watching her cough. “Try harder. You’re wasting my time. I have other unfortunate souls to see today and my roster is always full.”

A cold, sinking feel built in the pit of her stomach. Her mind scrambled over other bits of info, but she had to shift through the things that no Flight Sergeant would know, because that would give up the game entirely.

There really wasn’t anything else she could flub together without him getting annoyed. Then, she’d really get no help from him. That, and he might have her sent to the freezer. Or whipped silly after having all her fingernails torn out. Or even a good waterboarding, in just her underclothes, exposed, humiliated, drowning.

Nausea rose.

Perhaps…she could try to trade with her body. It would cause a momentary spiritual crisis, of course. It was that or risk having her hands crippled. It was a plausible scheme; she knew he hadn’t gone back to _Cadus I_ in a very long time. He’d been here when she arrived. He was still here. There were no front-line brothels on _Harridea_ and the men were no doubt getting frustrated.

Her mouth felt like a desert, dry and too warm. Months ago, this would have been out of the question. But now…some part of her curled up inside and died, just a bit. Sacrifices had to be made in the name of survival.

“Is…certainly there’s something else? Something else I can do for you.” The last came out as a statement rather than a question. Perhaps faking her own confidence would fool him into considering this.

_He’d never raped her. Not while she’d been on his roster for all those horrid months. Sure, he’d threatened her with it before. He’d dragged her by her hair to that awful room with the strange table that had restraints on the legs for ankles and ones on the far end for wrists. At that moment in time, he’d pressed her face to the wood and hissed, “Is this what you want? To be strapped here? The men love a chance to run the rounds on closed-mouth bitches. No? You don’t want to be in here? Then, you’ll give me some fucking information I can use. What will it be, Flight Sergeant?”_

_She’d been less horrified by the threat against her person and more so repulsed to realize what all the horrible female screams had been about from this room. The ones that seemed to go on for hours until the woman broke her voice box._

Now, he went still, very still, almost looking like a picture, frozen in time. His smokey eyes narrowed and he uttered coldly, “Are you trying to bribe an officer?” That was his form of foreplay, asking a question he already knew the answer to.

Licking her lips, chapped and sore from the winds outside and the heat from within the mines day in and out, Moira walked her words backwards carefully. She knew the game. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Sir.”

The unpleasant expression on his face never shifted. “Sir? You never called me ‘Sir’ when you were down here. You called me many things, but never that.”

 _Bastard. Gleeful fucking sadist. Twice damned demon from the abyss._ Among other names she can’t recall anymore.

“Things like that seem to happen when hot needles are being driven under one’s nails,” she replied, remembering with revulsion.

He stood there, leaning against the dark wall, eyes half-lidded. She could see him calculating her words, twisting and turning them over in his knife-sharp mind. He was debating internally, no doubt. The Lieutenant remained in his lax pose against the stone, even as he said, “This isn’t for you. It’s for me.”

With that, he opened the door and leaned out, barking orders. “Don’t interrupt me unless this compound is about to bust down on our heads.”

“Yes, Sir!” Not a single question asked.

Slamming the door with finality, he came and unlocked her hands, setting her free. He returned to his place against the wall, leaning. Watching. Crushed his cigarette lazily beneath his heel.

Moira rubbed life back into her fingers carefully, mentally preparing herself. She adopted a blank look reserved for dealing with him. A soldier’s reserve. An officer’s poise.

And she was, beneath everything, an officer, even if he knew it or not. An officer that would have outranked him, had they both served together in the Alliance instead against each other as bitter enemies.

Her hands trembled briefly, nerves coming forth. She clenched them, cursing herself for her own weakness. She’d been a worthy soldier, once. Now, she was a shadow. The tremor in her hands was one of her more recent ailments.

She’d resigned herself to this very fate long ago. It’s what they trained them for, those who went into the type of intelligence positions that she had occupied, especially in the bioweapon’s division. One must be able to withstand torture as long as possible. To cope with the fact that if captured by the enemy, one could be subject to all sorts of degradation, torture, in the pursuit of military knowledge.

Moira wasn’t sentimental about the act she knew she would likely be asked to perform upon him. It wasn’t like he was a terror to look upon either. No, it was more so the knowledge that it would be unpleasant, humiliating, that it was he who had broken her spirit all those weeks ago.

“Come here,” he commanded lowly, watching her face for any sign of emotion.

Slowly, reluctantly, feeling bile on her tongue, Moira crept forward to kneel at his feet. She stared at his boots, trying to hide her humiliation, the damage this was doing to her pride.

“Look at me.”

Moira tilted her head upwards, looking up the line of his athletic frame. Met his cold, ominous eyes.

“If you even think of biting my cock off, just know that what I’ll do to you will be far worse,” he informed her carefully. “I’d make use of that bone saw and take off all your limbs. Let you become a piece of meat. I’d make every goddamn man in this hellhole fuck you into an early grave. Does that sound nice?”

It was repulsive and Moira’s throat worked as she stared up at him. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

It started as demoralizingly at she imagined it would. The awkward silence as he unbuckled himself, the scrape of her knees on the floor as she got into position. The chill that made her nipples hard. The oppressive feeling of being about to do _this thing_ with a man that broke nearly every officer in this compound.

He was half-hard when exposed and Moira had to work with her hands to try and get him more interested. He seemed bored, more than anything, as if he didn’t expect to be impressed. With shame, Moira was keenly aware that she wasn’t at her best, not exactly clean, not exactly at her full glowing health. Not exactly _desirable_.

It went unsaid that if she did a poor job, she would not get what she came for.

The Butcher wasn’t really looking at her. She was a means to an end to him. A professional, detached fuck, a mouth hole to use and abuse. As always, he was a professional, unemotional about the whole thing. She could respect that. It made it easier.

It was never personal with him. This wretched place was a job to him. Half the time, he conducted his flunkies like they were instruments in concert, telling them exactly what to do and when. What tortures to commit. He’d watch for a break in the psyche. Sometimes, he’d do the dirty work himself.

Moira’s head felt like exploding from her pulse as she pressed her lips to his warm, velvety cock. Watched the interested bounce of his flesh as more blood raced to fill his erection. She took him into her mouth with care, perhaps too careful. Absolutely afraid of harming him. Terrified of even nicking him with one of her teeth.

His gloved hand suddenly gripped the back of her head, pressing her forward, nearly sending her into a panic, a moment of death and dying and control gone wrong. His cock bullied forward roughly, as if proving she didn’t have to treat him like glass.

Moira spluttered for a few moments before calming, resuming the movement of her tongue. She tried to not focus on him, heavy in her mouth. Warm. It was a job. It was a job she needed to get done. A soldier with ruined, nerveless hands was useless. She couldn’t be that.

He was relatively quiet, jaw clenched, head tilted backwards, eyes screwed shut. She wondered if he was thinking of someone else.

She licked, short strokes even with her mouth full of him. Moira had to remind herself that he wasn’t trying to suffocate her, even with the firm grip on the back of her skull. After a few moments of this, he mockingly said, “It feels like someone has been licking more than her fair share of cunt these days.”

The Lieutenant was displeased with her performance. Pulling off of his mostly hard appendage, Moira informed him, “I’m not aware of that really being prevalent in my barracks. Everyone is too tired after being worked to death in the mines.” There was accusation in her tone.

He snorted and she knew he was rolling his eyes.

“But, my last lover back home was a woman.” She cupped his sack, stroked a few fingers over his slowly stiffening flesh. Something caught his interest. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m out of practice with men.”

She tried again, taking him into her mouth with a bit more force, not quite so painfully gentle. He sighed, pleased with that amount of pressure, grabbing at her hair again, pushing his way towards her throat. Moira gagged around the sudden intrusion and reminded herself to relax against her gag reflex, sucking and working her throat. She remembered that swallowing around a cock always felt nice for men.

He peeked at her from under dark lashes and Moira stopped looking upward at his face. It was a habit, watching him. He was a dark deity, down in this hellish place of interrogation. When she’d been on his roster, she’s been ready to do almost anything to stop the pain, wondering if her body would break before her mind.

Precum began to fill her mouth, salty, a long-lost flavor on her tongue. It took longer than she had thought it would for it to start flowing, though she knew war often messed with human libido in strange ways. She had known plenty of men and women who’d struggled after deployment. Stress. Constant stress and being on edge.

Struggling a bit against his aggressive grasp on the back of her neck, Moira pulled herself off his cock with a bit of suction. She glanced up at him, seeing his eyes had opened, hazy with some fantasy, a ghostly drift of arousal.

She wondered. Trailed fingers over his smooth arousal, dancing over one of the veins. If she had a knife, she could have cut him there. “Do you like to think of me that way? With another woman?”

His breathing had shifted, deepened when she mentioned her last lover. On his home planet, _Cadus I_ , it would have been extremely unusual to have women be lovers to each other. All women were subservient to men on _Cadus I_ , a complete culture difference from Moira’s own home planet.

Those smoke colored eyes drifted over her pathetic, kneeling form. Envisioning. Under the collar of his dark uniform, she saw his throat work. His mouth was pulled into a tight line, the scar bisecting his lips white. Moira saw his intent to yank her back onto his cock, so she beat him to it, holding the base of his erection, feeling the flutter of his heart in her hands, the velvet heat of him on her lips once more.

Fine. He wanted to take his time and make this painfully boring. Let him live in his fantasy land in his head; Moira just needed him to keep up his end of the bargain at the end of all of this.

The wet sound of her mouth and his slight panting were the only sounds in the small, dank room. Moira’s miserable, stained cot was still pressed up against the wall.

“I’d have her lick your cunt,” he said suddenly, voice rough, surprising Moira from her own dark thoughts. “You’d be on my lap, facing her. Your legs spread wide, over mine. My cock, buried in your ass.”

The picture was vivid in her head, surprisingly so. Jarring, to imagine herself in any true sexual fantasy with this man. She could see it though, him taking her in whatever perverse fashion he could come up with, choosing to fill her ass, something no man had ever asked of her. Using another woman as a pawn, a stage prop in his circus, giving her commands, telling her exactly how her wanted her to use Moira’s exposed body, pinned like a bug on his thick cock.

Almost no different than how he orchestrated his torture sequences, conducting his men to do his bidding. A concert, made of screams and commands. Only, this version would have been made of tongues, cocks, cunts, and cum.

“She’d have big tits,” he rasped hoarsely, thrusting unsteadily.

“The way you like them?” She asked curiously as she pulled back briefly to catch her breath, using her hands to stroke him harder, seeing his cock drooling, bulbus head purple and aching. Her lips felt swollen, wet.

His knife-wound smile, scar and all, made its appearance. Gunmetal eyes now closed. “The way _you_ like them,” he corrected.

 _Well_. She felt her cheeks heat, her core unwittingly clenching.

He’s the kind of man she never would have chosen as a lover back home, too much arrogance, too much sneer, too much manipulation in those eyes that saw everything. Regardless, the fantasy he painted was compelling and she wondered if she could have enjoyed many nights with him if things were different. If their planets weren’t at war, if he were her peer instead of a subordinate.

Regardless of what he’d done to her in the past, she’d always respected the fact that he was excellent at his job. She would have wanted him on her team, one of her intelligence officers. While he might not have had what she looked for in a companion, he had everything she looked for in a subordinate, despite the fact that he likely had the tendency to climb the ladder as a careerist.

Poking his cockhead into her cheek sloppily, Moira swirled her tongue against his turgid flesh, pushing him towards climax. He tried to stifle his groans, eyes occasionally fixing on his cock disappearing into her mouth. It was a messy act, saliva dripping down her chin, throat convulsing, wet gagging noises. His hand back in her hair, yanking rudely in a fashion she found lined up with juvenile enthusiasm.

She had a strange fondness for that, oddly enough. He was excited, getting his first blowjob in what had probably been at least a year.

“I’d tell her to eat your cunt until you came on my cock. Again. And again. You’d beg me to make it stop. I…” he grunted, moving his hips, fucking her mouth, lost in his fantasy. “…I wouldn’t. I’d be too busy enjoying the bounce of your ass. Spread open. Tight. Biting your neck, marking you up. _Ah_ …you bruise so easily, too.”

He pulled out, rubbing his leaking cock slit against her lips, coating them with his precum, dribbling out. Moira felt the ghostly pulses of arousal in her cunt, her clit swelling under its hood. It was embarrassing that his words could draw this response from her. That he almost made her want him to fuck her, right here, in the very cell that he’d pulled terrible information from her lips with threats and hot needles.

“And, if you wanted to ride her, we’d have her lie down on her back. You could straddle her while I fuck you from behind. Let you rub your wet slit against her mound as I fuck you down onto her. Would you like that? Pressed up against those fat tits you like?”

A strangled noise crawled up Moira’s throat, an unwanted hint of desire zinging downward to her core. He knew it was exciting her. Horrid, beast of a man.

“Would you want her to kiss me?” She asked, wondering if the visual would sit in his mind.

His lips shaped into his familiar sneer. With a rough movement, he was ploughing past her lips again, listening to her whine against the sudden aggressiveness. “No, I wouldn’t,” he admitted, gaze on her tearing eyes.

She made a noise in her throat, fluttering around his girth.

He emitted a soft hiss of pleasure, and Moira allowed him to bully his way even deeper into her throat. “I’d fill your ass with cum. Your filthy cunt. I’d order her to clean you out with her fingers and her mouth.” He growled. “Then I tell her to fuck off, so I could plough you again in both your needy holes.”

Though her eyes watered from the effort to not gag, the effort to keep calm with her air nearly cut off, Moira felt a deep well of satisfaction rise up inside of her as she heard a strangled whine escape his clenched jaw. He thrust deeply, crushing her face to his pubic bone.

He pulsed on her tongue, uniquely male, uniquely vulnerable in this very moment. He gushed down her throat, thick and long. A groan made its way out of his chest as he fed her his sticky release.

Then, it was done. Just like that.

Afterwards, he zipped himself up, got his uniform back into proper place. Made himself presentable to his peers. Seemed to realize he’d probably come undone quite a bit in front of her and didn’t like it, if the irritated look on his face said anything.

Little did he know he’d made Moira uncomfortable for reasons he likely didn’t expect.

Moira remained sitting on the floor, her mouth tasting acidic, unpleasant. She ached in a place she shouldn’t, unfulfilled. She hated herself for that little detail. Her punishment was sore knees.

“You swallowed,” he commented idly, as if he were surprised. Professional butcher voice back in place.

She stared down at the filthy cement floor, noting the old stains of blood and gore in the cracks. No epoxy here. “If I had spat it out, you would have made me lick it up like a dog.”

The Lieutenant gave her no reply because she was absolutely correct. He would have. His silence either betrayed his displeasure that she had found him so predictable or it displayed the simple acknowledgement of the truth.

He gestured to her chair. “Go sit.”

She did as told, feeling the sting of an ache between her thighs, her legs shaky. Loathsome whore. What had she become, after all these months imprisoned?

The Lieutenant was watching her, a slight flush still on his cheekbones. “You’re looking thinner. Is the work not…sitting well with you? I thought you were pleased to move upstairs, out of my grasp.”

He must be laughing at her. Some hidden joke at her expense. “The work detail gloves, Lieutenant. You’ll get a spare pair for me? That was the deal.” Moira hoped she didn’t sound desperate, even though she feared he would deny her, just to torment her more. To make this all the more humiliating.

The Lieutenant crouched down in front of her, his fine military boots mostly clean aside from the hidden specks of blood. Blood from torturing prisoners for intelligence. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat while you’re here with me? I know they don’t give much to the prisoners, can’t let you keep too much of your strength. The men would become unmanageable. But, you…I can make an exception. Just. This. Once.”

 _Oh, he’s relentless_ , she thought with soul weary exhaustion, turning to meet his intense, smokey eyes. Moira was from _Artemis XII;_ she didn’t eat meat of any sort. He knew it, naturally. He’d liked starving her when she’d been on his interrogation roster. He’d liked putting plates of steaming meat in front of her, liked to watch her grow pale and sickly just looking at it.

She pressed her case. “The gloves are all I need.” Bent her pride. “Please.”

Expressionless, he rose to his feet, standing above her like an ominous harbinger of agony. “Maybe you should come back here next time you think of something you…would like to trade for.”

He was pleased with her performance. Which, was practically his performance if Moira really thought about it. She’d just been a hole for him to use.

Without another glance at her, he banged on the rusty metal door and it screeched open. “Take the Alliance bitch to the supply depot and help her get a new pair of gloves for her mining work detail. Her hands will get burned to shreds otherwise and we’ll have another useless female in the med bay.”

In the doorway, he turned slightly, nastiness in his gaze again at he looked at Moira, wanting to rob her of any relief she felt. “Flight Sergeant, make sure you report to the foreman at the mine. Let him know I’ve doubled your work quota for the week. That should help you pay for the glove expense.”

Then, he left the room, the scent of smoke wafting with him.

Moira stared after him, nausea rising, red climbing her vision like a vine of wrath.

She’d never felt more cheap.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved!!
> 
> I know it's a little jarring, considering this scene is set in the middle of a much longer story I've been working on (60,000+ words when complete), but hopefully you were able to follow along and jump right in :D 
> 
> © Asha Everly 2020


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